


In Which Enjolras Has Sex With Himself (and Marius Has a Bout of Fisticuffs With His Own Self)

by ConstanceComment



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Foursome, Foursome - M/M/M/M, I should not be allowed to write at four a.m., I'd fuck me, Implied Sexual Content, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Public Sex, Self-cest, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, a chlamydia of Courfeyracs, a medievalism of Jehans, an indignation of Feuillys, an inflexibility of Enjolrati, moresome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:42:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/pseuds/ConstanceComment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Further in which the characters of Les Amis from the 2012 movie meet their counterparts from the brick, and more crack is to be had than in a federal narcotics bust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Enjolras Has Sex With Himself (and Marius Has a Bout of Fisticuffs With His Own Self)

**Author's Note:**

> Unashamed crack and much less sexy than the title would suggest. I apologize for everything. I should not be allowed to write anything at four in the morning. The prompt can be found [ here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3891759#t3891759).

"So who is it that he's interested in, this time?" Courfeyrac asks, intrigued, and perhaps slightly bitter, if one listened closely enough.

"Enjolras," The blonde Combeferre responds.

 _"Enjolras?!"_ Courfeyrac's voice nearly cracks on the name, his eyebrows fleeing for his hairline.

"Enjolras," the pretty Grantaire moans mournfully, taking a long drink from the bottle in his hand before making a face and giving it back to his counterpart, its rightful owner, who in turn releases the pretty Grantaire's bottle back to him.

"Enjolras and _Pontmercy_?!" Courfeyrac repeats himself.

"Does my voice ever go that shrill?" Courfeyrac’s own counterpart asks his Joly in an aside, who only shrugs.

"Yes, well," the blonde Combeferre says, a bit peevishly. "At least, they used to. Not anymore, since Cosette."

The two of them stare at one another. Eventually, Courfeyrac blinks, and says; "no Bahorel, a pretty Grantaire, Marius and Enjolras-" Courfeyrac shakes his head. "Your world is very strange, my fair-haired friend."

"I never claimed it wasn't," the blonde Combeferre responds.

Elsewhere, the sound of fistfight is breaking out; "Ah," the bespectacled Combeferre remarks, "it seems the two Pontmercys have found one another."

"The Emperor was the finest man to grace the fields of this nation-!" one Marius is screaming at the top of his lungs while Bahorel restrains him. His lip is split, and one eye is shut, soon to be sporting a bruise.

"Napoleon was the sort of beast that is worthy of the title 'beast'-" the freckled Marius shouts back as he struggles against the grip of his own Joly and Courferyrac, who had rushed over at the beginning of the fight. On his clenched knuckles is the blood of his counterpart; his own face are a few scratches, the lines indicating fingernails dragged across skin.

"So you admit it then!" The first Marius shrieks triumphantly, pointing a finger accusingly as he best he can with the way that Bahorel holds his arms behind his body.

"What?" The freckled Marius asks, confused. "I only admit that Napoleon was a monster, as all monarchs and emperors besides are to be monstrous-"

 **"YOU ARE UNWORTHY OF OUR FATHER'S NAME!"** The first Marius roars, and returns to struggling against Bahorel in earnest. Bahorel shoots an entreating look at Feuilly, who quickly moves to help his friend drag the first Marius away from the other, looking for a good closet to shut him in.

One Enjolras turns to the other. "May we borrow yours?" He asks his counterpart. "I know now what you see in him."

The second Enjolras shrugs. "I am done with him, take him. Perhaps separation from that girl of his would do him good."

On hearing his Enjolras's words, the pretty Grantaire perks up, hopeful.

"No, my friend," the first Grantaire says to him, placing a hand on his counterpart's arm. "His being alone does not make him more likely to turn to us, on this you may have my word."

The pretty Grantaire sits back down at the table, and continues to drink. His counterpart pats him consolingly on the arm before turning to his own bottle.

"Your taste in wine is foul, you know," He remarks candidly. "Where is that from, Provence?"

"Corsica, actually," the pretty Granatiare responds.

"How horrible. It seems that your Enjolras is not the only person in your world utterly lacking in taste."

The pretty Grantaire half rises from the table in anger, but the first Grantaire merely pats his arm once more in pacification. "Hold, I meant no real offense."

"And you, then?" The pretty Grantaire asks mulishly, sitting once more.

"Savoy."

The first Grantaire snorts; "You would."

A small ways away, the angry shouts of the first Marius grow muffled as Feuilly shoves his cap into the Bonapartist's mouth, and Bahorel subsequently shoves Marius into the closet.

“Now that that’s settled,” Bahorel says easily, wiping his palms together as if to dislodge the traces of Marius, “would one of your gentlemen be willing to explain to me how it is that I do not exist?”

A small silence hangs, one beat, two-

“Well you see, when a mother and a father fail to love each other very much-” the other Courfeyrac starts, before the blonde Combeferre places a hand over his mouth.

“Perhaps the better question would be how it came to be that you became acquainted with these other versions of ourselves,” the blonde Combeferre tries, shooting daggers at his Courfeyrac. “That way, we may better determine where it was that we ourselves failed to meet you.”

Bahorel nods. “It was Grantaire’s fault, actually,” he starts, and the second Courfeyrac interrupts with a laugh; “What isn’t?” To this Bahorel nods, and Combeferre re-covers his Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“Continue, please,” Combeferre entreats Bahorel, who laughs, then nods before doing so.

Off to the side, the two Bossuets and one Joly have found the one that had before been with the second Courferyrac, and have pulled him into the corner to join the rest of them in immodesty. 

The two Enjolrati share a look. “Did yours-“ one starts, and the other nods quickly. “Ah then,” he says, before stopping. Their gazes both remain locked on the foursome.

“It is good to know that some things do not change,” one of the Enjolrati says to the other as he watches the foursome with the same detached air as a scholar or a king or to his subjects.

“Yes,” his counterpart replies faintly, though he does not look away, “good indeed.”

The two look at one another. “So, you and Pontmercy-“ one says, and the other shakes his head.

“Let’s not talk about him,” he cuts in quickly, and takes his counterpart’s hand before tugging him towards the door of the Musain. “Do we still live in the Latin Quarter?” He asks with some urgency.

The other Enjolras tightens his grip around his hand and nods. “Small student apartment, creaking floorboards-“

“Mattress,” his counterpart continues. The word is perhaps more of a promise than it should be.

“Mattress,” the other Enjolras agrees, and the two of them are out the door, gone.

“Did they just-“ Courfeyrac asks to no one in particular, trying to pick his jaw off the floor. At the table next to him, the two Grantaires are in dissimilar states of shock. The pretty one is practically weeping, his curled head repeatedly striking the table. The other has upened bottle and thrown his head back, drinking the Savoy wine as fast as gravity will allow him.

The bespectacled Combeferre turns to him, and to the remaining Marius. “Well,” he says slowly, giving the more tolerable Marius a long, appreciative head-to-toe sort of look, “seeing as the rest of our companions have been occupying themselves-“

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says quickly, fervently before turning his eyes hopefully towards what he has come to realize is perhaps the objectively better Marius, in that he is apparently far more likely to sleep with Courfeyrac than his own Marius, who did not so much as react to the possible innuendo in the(apparently innocent) statement of “I have come to sleep with you.”

“That is,” Courfeyrac asks tentatively, “if you will have us?”

The freckled Marius frowns slightly, hesitating as Combeferre threads his fingers through Courfeyrac’s. “Cosette-“ Marius starts.

“Has her own Marius in this world,” Combeferre cuts in quickly. “We have no knowing of how long this strangeness will last for; for all we know this spell could hang over us an eternity.”

Courfeyrac stretches out his free hand to Marius. “We would like to show you a good time, while it lasts,” he offers tentatively.

Marius wavers a moment more, then takes his hand. Internally, Courfeyrac crows, before turning to Combeferre. “Our place, or yours?”

“I am sure you are equipped with the larger mattress, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre replies, to which Courfeyrac shrugs good-naturedly, accepting the observation of his promiscuity for what it is.

“Well it’s useful now, isn’t it?”

“Most certainly,” Combeferre replies as he brings Marius’s hand to his lips for a kiss, eyes dark with want. Combeferre swallows, then pulls both men out the door behind him, lest they not make it to the apartment at all.

At another table, the two Feuillys share a look with one another. “Fools, the lot of them,” the capless one says.

“Passion mad,” agrees the other. “Now about these fan construction techniques-“ he continues, drawing his counterpart’s attention back to the fan splayed out before them.

“Ah, yes, you splay them here,” the capless Feuilly says, demonstrating with pointed fingers “and here, then stretch the fabric over the wood like so-“

“I think it is romantic,” one Jehan says defensively.

His counterpart nods in fervent affirmation. “To see love blooming across the universes in such a way, oh, it stirs the blood in the veins and quickens the beat of the heart-“

“I am not sure that is love,” the hatted Feuilly says skeptically. “It seems more like lust, to me.”

“The heart still quickens,” the second Jehan says decisively, his counterpart adding; “the blood still races.”

“Towards their cocks more as like,” the capless Feuilly interjects. “We could be planning a better revolution; instead, our leaders and half the band go off to fuck in small student apartments.”

“Some didn’t even get that far,” his hatted doppelgänger adds disparagingly.

“Make love,” the second Jehan corrects him absently. “They go off to make love in small apartments.”

“And cafés,” his counterpart adds.

“And in cafés,” the second Jehan agrees.

A pause settles over the group at this pronouncement, and the two Feuillys turn back to their fans, the Jehans to their poetry.

A moan breaks out from the tangle of limbs that is the Jolys and the Bossuets.

“Get a room!” The capless Feuilly shouts, irritated.

“Or at least a closet!” His counterpart adds.

One Bossuet surfaces for air; “but Marius has taken the only one!”

“You have a home, don’t you?” The hatted Feuilly asks.

The foursome shares a look, then breathes, almost as one; “Musichetta-“ before scrambling up to try and somewhat straighten their clothes before dashing from the Musain.

“Finally, quiet,” the first Feuilly remarks.

“So about those struts-“ his hatted friend resumes, and the first Feuilly nods, turning back to the fan before them.


End file.
